


Brofections, or Five Times Sam Is Jealous Over Blaine and One Time He Isn't

by foramomentonly



Category: Glee
Genre: Brotp, Epic Bromance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:16:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foramomentonly/pseuds/foramomentonly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5-1 celebrating the epic bromance of Blaine Anderson and Sam Evans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. The Guy Working the Hot Pretzel Stand at the Mall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maurader-in-warblerland](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=maurader-in-warblerland).



Blaine and Sam are at “the good mall” a few towns over because Blaine is running low on multicolored polos and impossibly tight pants, and they decide to make a pit stop at the food court. This is where all the straight teen cruising goes down, and Sam likes to keep his game fresh; Blaine just really wants a hot pretzel. Or the hot pretzel guy, Sam realizes after approximately thirty seconds of watching Blaine chat with the sandy-haired youth working the register. Blaine’s eyes are bright, and he’s nodding enthusiastically at the boy’s offhand comment as he’s scooping a healthy amount of melted cheese – definitely more than standard – into a small plastic cup to fill Blaine’s order. It’s a slow Tuesday afternoon for the mall – which is why Sam is creeping on Blaine instead of entertaining cute co-eds with his timely Walter White impression – and the hot pretzel guy is certainly taking advantage of the lack of customers; he’s taking his time selecting a particularly plump pretzel, testing its temperature before sticking it back in the warmer, and carefully arranging perfectly proportioned dipping sauces on Blaine’s tray, all the while talking amiably at his customer and grinning like an idiot. Still, only so much culinary work can be put into the making of a (frozen) hot pretzel, and the transaction soon ends, Blaine and the boy gazing longing at one another over Blaine’s fifteen cents in change.  
Sam is out of his chair and approaching the hot pretzel stand before his plan to act as wingman is even fully formed. Blaine is still facing the counter, re-pocketing his wallet and arranging his food and beverage on his tray, when Sam arrives, slapping Blaine on the back.  
“Dude, you mind hanging here for a second? I want to fill out an application.”  
Blaine nods enthusiastically, and the young man behind the counter – who close up has soft blue eyes and an explosion of freckles across his nose and cheekbones – practically throws an application at Sam, requesting, “Be as thorough as possible.”  
Sam scoots down the counter a bit and uncaps the fountain pen Blaine hands him, idly tapping it against his fingers as he scans the application questions before putting pen to paper.  
Name: Kitty Wilde  
Age: 16, but people say I look about 27  
“O-oh, a swimmer? That’s great,” Sam hears Blaine stammer. “You must keep in really good shape.”  
“Yeah, it’s kind of impossible not to. We train year round, for the most part.”  
“I’ve heard Carmel has an impressive team.”  
“We did place in the top three at State last year. I took second in the fifty meter freestyle, myself.”  
“Wow.”  
Sam glances over and sees Blaine’s pink cheeks and wide, somewhat glazed eyes, wondering idly if he looks that ridiculous when he visits Brittney during Cheerios practices. He returns to his half-completed form.  
Greatest Strengths: Tearing people down with inventive, though often excessively worded insults.  
Greatest Weakness: I push all those who would love me away with creatively-constructed abuses.  
“Oh!” Sam hears Blaine exhale softly, but sharply, and his head snaps up. He sees Freckles carefully ripping Blaine’s pretzel into small pieces.  
“I know it’s silly, but breaking the pretzel up into smaller chunks makes me feel like I’ve eaten more, so I stop before I’ve devoured the whole thing,” he’s explaining. “It’s really the only way to work here and still keep fit.”  
Blaine is nodding slowly, but his dark eyes are fixed on Freckles’s bare hands and dexterous fingers as they tear his food into pretzel bites, and his jaw is slack; he’s practically salivating. Sam knows that look, is familiar with that breathy exhalation. He used to see it every time Kurt would reach over to smooth Blaine’s lapel or straighten his bow tie, and he recognizes it now as the sound Blaine makes when Sam is gesturing passionately to the nuances of a half-constructed macaroni portrait while explaining his creative vision. Blaine has admitted to being incredibly turned on by men’s hands; he described them as “broad, strong, with long fingers,” and confessed to fantasizing how they would feel on him, even inside him. Sam had made the connection between Blaine’s reactions to these gestures and their significance, and shrugged it off; everyone has their thing, he figures, and it’s not like he thinks Blaine’s crush on him is rooted solely in his personality.  
But this, he thinks as he watches Blaine attempt to carry on a conversation with a man who’s extremities he is clearly fantasizing about right now, is totally different. Now Sam finds it incredibly inappropriate in a mall food court amongst children and totally unhygienic, as sometime during the pair’s flirtation Freckles and Man Hands lost his gloves. Sam signs Kitty’s name on the application with a flourish and charges back over to the register. He thrusts the application at the guy and jabs Blaine in the ribs with his own pen.  
“Finished. You ready to go?”  
Blaine looks a little taken aback by Sam’s sudden re-appearance into his life and personal space, but his lips curl up into a smile and he replies, “Sure. Can I have my pen back?”  
Sam hands him his fountain pen and observes victoriously that Blaine stores it back in his bag rather than using it to get Freckles and Man Hands’ number. The boy looks disappointed as he re-assesses Sam and, assumingly, his relationship to Blaine. Sam adds defiantly as they turn to leave, “Gross! What did you do to your pretzel?” before tossing it in the trash.  
Sam and Blaine are riding the escalator down to the first floor to the parking garage, and Sam is practically vibrating with a nervous, angry energy.  
“Um, you going to tell me what’s up?” Blaine asks.  
“Nothing. It’s nothing,” Sam replies, staring straight ahead.  
“Okay,” Blaine shrugs, side-eyeing his friend with a smile. “You know, just because I flirt with other guys doesn’t mean I’m any less devoted to you.”  
Sam splutters. “What? What are you talking about, dude? I don’t care if you and Mr. Freckles and Hands want to get busy in the back room on a sack of flour. I was helping you out back there, remember?”  
Blaine smiles that same calm, secret little grin, and Sam sort of wants to punch him.  
“Whatever you say. Also, no, thank you, to the sex. Those freckles were adorable, though. And those hands…” Blaine laughs as Sam silently seethes, and adds, “But, really, synchronized swimmers are way sexier than regular swimmers. It’s all about flexibility, right?”  
Sam stares straight ahead to hide his smug grin, and Blaine pockets his cell phone to conceal the new number very recently stored inside.


	2. 2. The Eye-Fucker at the Gym

Sam begins to attend Sue’s 90X boot camp classes with Blaine because he is willing to try any exercise routine at least once; he stays because it is the most intensive workout he has ever experienced. Even after Sue insists he wear the tiny cotton shorts – which admittedly give him better range of motion than his baggy nylon shorts – he sticks with it, and after only a month of once-a-week classes he sees a significant increase in his stamina and flexibility. He jokes to Blaine that the class has utterly transformed his abilities as a lover, and Blaine raises an eyebrow and replies, “I’ll have to take your word on that.”  
It’s not that Sam never noticed there is a severe shortage of men in the class before, he just never realized that, besides he and Blaine, there is only one other dude in the room until said dude makes himself painfully visible to Blaine during the next class. Sam and Blaine claim their usual positions on the floor, chatting easily and shaking out their limbs in anticipation of the start of their workout. Sam watches curiously as a man in his early twenties approaches the woman directly in front of them, gesturing behind her discreetly and smiling. She risks a glance behind herself, smiles back at him, and nods, collecting her mat and gear and retreating to the back of the room. The man sets up his own station carefully, far less discreetly gazing over his shoulder at Blaine with a predatory intensity. Blaine is still talking at Sam, his head turned to the side, but he must notice the man in his peripherals – or else sense his borderline creepy attention as he continues steadily staring – because Blaine meets the man’s eyes briefly and offers up a small smile and a somewhat awkward wave. The man grins and opens his mouth to speak, but quickly rights himself and faces the front when Sue throws open the studio door.  
“Uh, what was that?” Sam asks, leaning closer to Blaine to whisper.  
Blaine drops his chin against his chest and chuckles softly, replying, “It’s nothing, really. Just a guy that was sort of flirting with me during my first class. I think when I showed up with you he thought I had a boyfriend, so he’s backed off these past few weeks. Guess he figured out we’re just friends.”  
Sam wants to ask if the guy was or is seriously bothering Blaine, but the pulsing beat of Sue’s techno work out mix begins, and a split second later so does their routine. The first few minutes of the workout are fine, totally normal, but as they execute a move Sam still sees as a more vigorous Bend and Snap, he notices the guy eyeing Blaine again with an openly lustful gaze. Blaine again acknowledges the leering, a somewhat incredulous smile pulling at his lips as he shakes his head before returning his own attention to Sue, who is yelling, “Pick up the pace, boy toys, or I will toss your asses out of my studio!” Sam continues to lag behind the group during the remaining thirty minutes of class, however, as his attention is fixated on the one-way seduction happening right before his increasingly enraged eyes. The man continues to stare at Blaine as he shimmies and thrusts through his workout, and, at one point, Sam swears he hears the guy groan as Blaine easily flips his legs over his head and rolls his weight onto his shoulders. (And, seriously, how had Sam not realized how damn sexual all these moves are?!). This guy is intentionally and inexhaustibly eye fucking Sam’s best friend in the middle of his former high school cheer coach’s fitness class, and Sam’s blood is boiling.  
Theoretically, Sam has no cause for concern. It’s not that Sam doesn’t know Blaine can take care of himself; Blaine is strong and fast, and though usually mild mannered, he will defend himself and those close to him fiercely, if the occasion arises. Sam does not doubt that Blaine can handle unsolicited, aggressive sexual advances, and probably has before. But there is theory, and there is reality, and in reality Sam feels a deep and visceral need to shield Blaine from physical and sexual aggression. He finds it his duty to defend Blaine against physical or sexual aggression, and the fact that it is happening right now, unchecked due to circumstance and social decorum, sends cold waves of fury through Sam’s body. By the final minutes of his workout, Sam’s adrenaline is peaked more by the man’s heated gaze than Sue’s grueling steps.  
The class finally ends and Blaine leads Sam toward the locker room, Sam observing darkly that the man is following close behind, and, in fact, has chosen a locker not four down from Blaine’s. Blaine himself remains seemingly oblivious, peeling off his sweaty tank top and shorts and standing totally naked in front of his locker, digging through his toiletry bag.  
“Hey, man, I can’t find my shampoo. Can I borrow yours?” Blaine asks, turning to face Sam and slinging a towel over his shoulder. Sam watches over Blaine’s shoulder as the man’s eyes travel slowly down the expanse of Blaine’s back, landing on his bare ass and drinking in the sight with relish. Sam snaps.  
“Would you like to take a picture? Or maybe just drag him into a shower stall and have your way with him? Either way, you’ll have to get through me first, asshole,” he snaps.  
“Sorry, didn’t think he was spoken for,” the guy stammers as his face flushes and he hastily grabs his bag and heads for the showers. Blaine had turned at Sam’s harsh tone and quickly slipped his towel around his waist when he noticed the man behind him and the trajectory of his gaze, but as he turns back to Sam, he looks rather peeved.  
“And what was that?” he asks.  
“What was what? That creepy guy was eye fucking you the whole class, and just now he was staring at you like he was seconds away from mounting you!” Blaine colors.  
“And what if I didn’t have a problem with that?” Blaine asks, his hand on his hip.  
“Didn’t you?”  
“Well, yes, he was a bit…aggressive –” Sam snorts, “but some day a less intense guy might eye fuck me during a workout or on the dance floor, and it would be great if my best friend didn’t come charging into that scenario like some jealous boyfriend and frighten him off! It’s not like you’re ever going to give me what I’m looking for in that respect.”  
“I’m not jealous,” Sam attempts to defend himself weakly, “I’m protective.”  
“You sound like the perpetrator in a teen dating violence PSA, you know,” Blaine says, waiting for Sam to gather his own shower supplies. Sam’s shoulders sag as he reaches for his bag on the bench.  
“Yeah, okay. I do. I’m sorry.”  
“It’s okay,” Blaine concedes as they head toward the showers, “though it kind of sucks for me that you scared away the only other gay guy in our class. I hear it does incredible things for one’s sexual prowess.”


	3. 3. The Facebook Guy (But Not That Facebook Guy)

It’s about 8:30 on a Friday night, and Sam is bored, which is not exactly an infrequent occurrence of late. The Cheerios’ Nationals competition is coming up and the McKinley Titans basketball team is, miraculously, making a determined play for State, so Brittney is immersed in late-night practices and away games; Finn is home less and less since beginning his coursework at Lima University and moving in with Puck; and Blaine is either busy with one of his seemingly endless extra curricular responsibilities or diligently studying, despite the fact that it’s second semester of his senior year and Artie has already beaten him out for valedictorian by a nail-bitingly narrow margin.   
Sam is admittedly a bit bruised by his friends’ recent inattention and their seeming indifference to their diminished time together: In the past three days, Brittney has sent him no more than a quick “I love you” text (which actually read “I need a lock of your hair to put on my Dream Board,” but the sentiment was there) and Blaine had called to cancel bro-brunch the next day and apologize profusely for “the inconvenience.” But Sam is determined not to begrudge his friends their successes and separate lives, so in the past few weeks he has reunited with some old friends: Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest.  
He logs off of Pinterest after a lucrative hour and a half of pinning some inspiring macaroni art and DIY corsage instructions (planning ahead for prom), and switches over to Facebook. He keeps in touch with family here, graduated members of New Directions, and the few friends he had made in Kentucky before relocating back to Lima. Sam scrolls lazily through his news feed, liking a status update of Mike Chang’s about an impending visit to Lima and posting his own about enjoying a quiet night in. Tina quickly replies to his post with a snarky, “Which is code for ‘Everyone is hanging out without me.’” Sam rolls his eyes and responds with, “And, apparently, you. Or is Blaine tied up in your basement?” Sam grins smugly when Unique, Kurt, and Kitty have all liked his comment after only a few minutes.  
This leads him to waste another ten minutes perusing Tina’s profile, which is filled with posts and links about female empowerment, independence, and “divatude;” Rachel, Mercedes, and Blaine have liked or commented on nearly every one. Sam ignores the urge to jump to Mercedes’s profile; she’s all but abandoned it, anyway, and there’s only so many times he can re-watch her linked performance of   
“Disco Inferno” before he’ll have to consider the reason he’s still watching it. Instead, he clicks on Blaine’s name idly, intending to leave a purposefully misleading message on his wall; Cooper always ribs Blaine about them, despite knowing full well the nature of his and Sam’s relationship, and Blaine always gets flustered and irritated, and it’s always amusing to watch.  
When he gets there, however, Sam’s attention is diverted by an unfamiliar name littering Blaine’s wall. Some dude Sam has never even heard of before is liking Blaine’s statuses, responding to his comments and links, and otherwise engaging him in a strangely intense manner. This intrigues Sam because, with the exception of a few Dalton guys, Blaine’s friends are Sam’s friends, and Blaine’s naturally open personality coupled with the intimacy of their friendship leaves Sam confident he knows if only by name every member of Blaine’s small family. To come across a name he is completely unfamiliar with is rare, and Sam can’t help but investigate. It isn’t stalking, Sam justifies as he reads through their exchanges and scans the guy’s – Ted’s – profile, it’s Facebook.  
At first, Sam isn’t even sure why he is so interested. Though an unfamiliar figure lurking on Blaine’s profile could call to Sam’s mind a conversation between he and Blaine earlier in the year – “It was a guy that friended me on Facebook…” – Sam knows Blaine blocked that guy directly after their encounter, and he (and the rest of the Western hemisphere) is certain Blaine is too committed to a reunion with Kurt to even consider another hook up. Besides, even a cursory glance at Ted and Blaine’s interactions betrays a level of familiarity and intimacy that speaks to a deeper connection. The pair exchange remember whens; excitedly gush over new discovered shared interests; Blaine calls him “Teddy.” And this throws Sam increasingly off balance.  
At his old, all boys academy, Sam didn’t have many close friends. His impressions made people laugh, his answers to teachers’ questions in class even more so (though less intentionally), but he never really bonded with any of the guys there. At McKinley, Sam thought he had found true bros in Finn, even in Puck, after they surpassed the whole “balls in your mouth” comment; but Sam had come to realize that Finn needs him more than he wants him (to win Sectionals (twice), to keep Quinn warm for him until he decided to have her again) and Puck is inconsistent, at best. But Blaine and Sam are tight. Blaine and Sam share problems, emotions, and confessions, along with interests and hobbies. Blaine and Sam know each other, their desires and wishes and secrets; they know one another better than almost anyone else (the silent, ever-present exception being Kurt). Sam has never opened himself to another dude like he has with Blaine, and, he thought, neither had Blaine.  
And yet here is another guy who has suddenly and aggressively claimed an intimacy with Sam’s best friend. And Blaine is reinforcing their bond enthusiastically, chatting him up about Mad Men, lol-ing over some girl who had a crush on Blaine at nine years-old, and empathetically discussing homophobia in small-minded, Midwestern towns and families. Blaine, who barely has time to talk Regionals strategy over lunch at school anymore, is logging what must be an hour a day liking and commenting on Teddy’s every cyber-move. Sam’s shoulders are heavy, his thoughts leaden, and he feels irrationally betrayed. Blaine is allowed to have other friends, of course he is; but Sam values and prides himself on the special confidence he and Blaine have built over the past year. And he realizes heavily that he wants to be the only guy (again, always excepting Kurt) who understands Blaine, connects with him, and is understood and valued especially in return.  
Sam is in the midst of processing his slightly irrational, but no less visceral reaction when a small red icon pops onto his screen indicating a new notification. He hovers over it to discover the illustrious Teddy has tagged Blaine in a picture. Sam pulls it onto his screen and sees a young, ruddy-cheeked version of Blaine with tousled curly hair grinning infectiously at a mousy boy with dirty blonde hair. The caption reads: “Sadie Hawkins 2010 with Blaine Anderson. Remember the good times.” Sam balks. This is Blaine’s friend from his old, old school, the one he shared a night from hell with when they were jumped after what appears to be this same school dance. He remembers Blaine’s minimal comments on the guy: Blaine had transferred to Dalton immediately and the other boy – Teddy – had felt betrayed, resentful, and probably terrified. They had had one huge blowout over the phone before Blaine’s first day at Dalton, and they hadn’t spoken since. Blaine had confessed to feeling guilty for leaving his friend, but relieved to be cutting ties with that horrendous school entirely.  
“I just wish I knew what happened to him,” Blaine had confessed in nearly a whisper. “I wish I could be certain that he’s safe.”  
Sam powers down his computer without leaving a comment for Blaine, feeling his own guilt and pettiness weighing down on him. Blaine is finally reconnecting with an old friend, one who understands a part of his life and experiences that even Kurt cannot wholly understand, one who he has worried about every day for literally years, and Sam is pouting because Blaine isn’t paying him enough attention. He’s even more embarrassed to admit to himself that he still does worry that the re-introduction of this old friend into Blaine’s life will affect their dynamic friendship.  
That is, until he meets up with Blaine for their weekend jog through the park. During their fifteen minute stretch period, Sam can’t help but breech the subject of Teddy.  
“I, uh, I saw you kind of reunited with your friend from your old school,” Sam ventured, desperately attempting for casual. “You know, the one you went to that d-dance with?”  
Blaine stretches his left arm far above his head slowly, sighing.  
“Kind of. He found me on Facebook and we’ve been catching up, so to speak. It’s fine. It’s nice. We have a lot in common still, so...”   
Sam sees directly through him. Blaine’s voice is mild, noncommittal to any specific emotion, which usually means he is practically drowning in conflicting thoughts and feelings.  
“Do you want to skip the run today?” Sam asks. “We could get some coffee and just talk about it?”  
Blaine’s whole body relaxes, his mouth pulls around a small, grateful smile, and his eyes shine wide and bright with emotion.  
“God, Sam, that would actually be fantastic.” He offers Sam another smile and says, “You really are my best friend...”  
Except Kurt, is, of course, the unspoken finish to his sentence. But as they walk toward the Lima Bean, Sam slings an arm around Blaine’s shoulders and thinks, I’ll definitely take that.


	4. 4. Fucking Sebastian

For a few weeks after The Break Up Blaine couldn’t bring himself to visit, or even drink coffee from, The Lima Bean. Even more than McKinley, even more than the Hudmel house, Blaine said, this place reminded him of Kurt. The constant, dull whir of the espresso machine was the backdrop to so many of their conversations; at practically each table in the place the couple had shared some intimate, significant moment in their romantic history; and the flavor of the shop’s dark roast, Blaine bemoaned, is the exact taste of Kurt’s skin.  
Sam sort of gets it; the Lima Bean was he and Mercedes’s place in the early, secret stages of their relationship (being primarily a Dalton hangout), and he was surprised at the instantaneous, painful twisting of his gut when he walked into the shop for the first time after returning to Lima. But how a person’s skin can taste like coffee – and a particular blend at that – Sam will never know, barring some kind of freak medical condition, and he chalks this up to Blaine’s dramatic and slightly hyperbolic nature. Still, because Sam understands, and because he is the Best Bro Ever, he and Blaine kill the lazy, late afternoon hours at the organic smoothie place two blocks from school for a few weeks. It isn’t that huge of an issue for Sam, anyway; he’s not big on coffee.  
The problem, as it turns out, is that Blaine really is. In fact, coffee seems to be the secret fuel to Blaine’s never-ending optimism and energy, and without it he is decidedly less chipper. Disgruntled New Directions members begin to complain when an accidental bump in Booty Camp 2.0 earns them a sharp, “Watch where you’re dancing!” rather than a gentle hand on their arm and a sincere, “Oh, I’m so sorry, honey!” Sam finally intervenes when Blaine literally snaps his fingers at Marley as he strides into the choir room, jerking his thumb and growling, “Move!” because she still sometimes forgets the unspoken “the seat next to Blaine is reserved for Phantom Kurt” rule of proper choir room seating etiquette.  
Sam starts slow. The next day he brings in a nondescript thermos filled with coffee from the Bean and hands it deliberately to Blaine. Blaine takes a cautious sip, his dark eyes screaming betrayal at Sam when the rich liquid hits his tongue, but Sam merely nods sagely and walks away. By Glee rehearsal, Blaine’s eyes are wet and slightly red, but the thermos is empty. Sam eases Blaine back to accepting The Lima Bean to-go cups the next week, encourages him to just sit in the car while Sam goes in to pick up their order soon after, and before a whole month has passed Blaine and Sam – and occasionally Tina and/or Artie – are spending three out of five post-rehearsal afternoons in the shop. Blaine is caffeinated, his demeanor is pleasant, and a combination of excellent brew, time, and emotional support has rendered him genuinely happier. And Sam is officially obsessed with chai teas with a shot of espresso.  
The only drawback to The Lima Bean, Sam thinks darkly as he and Blaine enjoy an impromptu Friday afternoon caffeine buzz, is that it remains a Dalton hangout.  
“Hello, Sebastian,” Blaine says wearily as the tall, smirking boy in the red and blue blazer approaches their table.  
“Hello, Blaine. Hello, Blaine’s blue collar boyfriend.”  
“Sebastian,” Blaine hisses, gripping his cardboard cup dangerously hard as Sebastian, totally uninvited, drags a chair up to their small table and drapes himself over it.  
“Yes, Blaine?” At Blaine’s answering glare, Sebastian chuckles and says, “Oh, come on! You have to admit, you’ve got a socio-economic type. I imagine it’s exciting and refreshing, in a very small way.” Sebastian leans over the table and runs a finger down the back of Blaine’s hand. “Just promise you’ll call if you ever decide to break the pattern.”  
Blaine pulls his hand back, but a bit slowly to Sam’s eye, and replies, “Sam is not my boyfriend. And I thought you were playing nice now?”  
Sebastian’s eyes brighten at Blaine’s statement as his fingers snake around his cup and bring it slowly to his mouth, never breaking eye contact with Blaine through a generous pull of his drink and a quick swipe of his tongue across his thin upper lip.  
“I am playing nice. I’m playing very nice. I’ve not assaulted, threatened, or blackmailed anyone at all this year. But enough about me. Tell me all about your newly single life. Is there room in it for a tall, dark, and handsome prep school heartthrob?”  
Sebastian leans his elbows on the table and rests his chin in his hands, blinking exaggeratedly at Blaine in a fully ironic caricature of love-struck innocence. Sam glares in disgust at Sebastian before turning to Blaine, who is not quick enough in bringing a hand to his mouth and dipping his head to hide from either boy a small grin pulling his full lips across his teeth and a quiet chuckle. Sam’s exasperation silences him. Sebastian opts to respond with a heated, leering gaze that travels from the tips of Blaine’s gleaming loafers to his slick, dark hair.  
“Thank you for the offer,” Blaine replies, “but the answer is still and always will be ‘no, thank you.’” Blaine calmly and steadily meets Sebastian’s gaze, but a light flush creeping out from under his collar betrays him.  
Sebastian stands and casually buttons his blazer, saying, “Well, the offer is always on the table, Blaine.”  
He raps his knuckles lightly on the table before him with a grin, then lazily heads for the exit. Sebastian calls out a casual goodbye to both Blaine and Sam over his shoulder, but, while Blaine replies, Sam feels no need to, having been effectively ignored into silence throughout the entire exchange. He instead turns quickly and angrily to Blaine.  
“Dude!” he cries, and his irritation escalates when Blaine fixes him with a blank, confused look.  
“What, Sam?”  
“How can you still even talk to that guy? After what he did to you! And to the  
Warblers! And most of all to us!”  
“Look, I am a firm believer in second chances, and –”  
“So am I,” Sam interrupts quickly, knowing how quickly this conversation could  
devolve into a discussion of Blaine’s lingering guilt thinly veiled by a question of  
morality and ethics. “So am I, and people like you deserve one. But that guy has had  
more than I can count, and he’s still a creepy douche who stole our Nationals trophy,  
juiced up for a show choir competition, and sexually assaults you every chance he gets!”  
“Okay, I would hardly call it assault – ” Blaine begins with a scoff, but again he  
is interrupted.  
“Yeah, ‘cuz you like it!” Sam realizes the volume of his voice is rising and the  
other patrons are starting to take notice, but there’s little he can or will do to derail this  
frenzied state of accusatory disgust he’s worked himself into. “You like it. Just admit it.  
There’s this weird, intense chemistry between the two of you, and you enjoy him flirting  
at you and eye fucking you and touching you. I can see it, Kurt saw it –”  
Sam clamps his mouth shut, but it’s too late, it’s out, and for a split second  
Blaine’s entire body slumps and he looks utterly heartbroken before he draws himself up in his seat, and his features contort into a dignified rage.  
“You know, Sam,” he begins quietly, his voice low and dark, “I find it pretty  
interesting that you keep comparing yourself to K-Kurt, and our friendship to mine and Kurt’s relationship. Because you. Are. Not. My. Boyfriend. And this protective, jealous bro routine is getting old. I don’t need or want anyone controlling my personal life, no matter how much I myself might have fucked it up in the past. So while I know theoretically that this comes from a place of caring, I need you to express your brofections for me another way. And I need you to not talk to me for awhile.”  
With that, Blaine stands stiffly and strides straight out the door, leaving Sam alone at the small table with two abandoned coffee cups and a heavy conscience. Sam sighs deeply and leans back in his seat, groaning loudly when a shadow eclipses the light streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows.  
“Lover’s quarrel?” Sebastian asks lightly, plucking his cup from the table and grinning.  
Sam furrows his eyebrows and glowers at Sebastian, already feeling his cell phone grow heavy in his pocket as the battle between the conflicting urges to respect Blaine’s request and earn absolution rages within him. Sam slams a fist on the table and glares resentfully up at Sebastian.  
“Home wrecker.”


	5. 5. Blaine's Hard Drive

Sam arrives a bit early to Blaine’s house one Sunday afternoon for their weekly Ultimate SAT Study Session, so he lets himself into the Anderson’s home using the hide-a-key perfectly concealed amid the tasteful flower bed decorating the front lawn. Unfortunately for Blaine’s parents, their youngest son’s preference for ultra-fitted slacks and his refusal to endure “unsightly bulges” in his pockets means Blaine frequently leaves his personal set of keys at home, and nearly the entire Glee club has seen him retrieve the spare Sam now pockets. He heads directly toward Blaine’s bedroom, knowing that Blaine’s parents won’t be home, and that Blaine himself will most likely be perched on his desk chair, hunched over his laptop or keyboard, despite having the whole of the Anderson’s rather ridiculously large house to himself. Sam jogs quietly up the carpeted stairs, humming absent-mindedly.   
Which is why it takes him a moment longer than it should to hear the moans.  
Outside Blaine’s mostly closed door, Sam freezes abruptly when he hears Blaine groan long and loud. He instinctively surges forward to push the door open – though a year of living with Finn really should have buried those instincts – but pauses when he distinguishes multiple muffled voices releasing harsh and slightly overdone cries. Sam hovers uncertainly, hesitant to look, but still unwilling to completely commit to the notion of dapper, romantic, perfectly poised Blaine Anderson doing what it was becoming increasingly obvious he was, in fact, doing. He hears a muffled series of deep, low groans and pants, followed by a cacophony of uhs and ohs and yeahs.   
Finally, a voice that is unfamiliarly wrecked, but unmistakably Blaine’s, cries out, “Oh, g-god!”  
Sam turns and exits the Anderson home as stealthily as he had apparently entered it, hand over his mouth to stifle his snorts of laughter.   
He sits in his car for a few minutes, as much to center himself as to give Blaine time to take care of business.   
It’s not that Sam didn’t assume Blaine touches himself; they’ve had enough open, but gentlemanly conversations about sex for Sam to glean that Blaine is a sexual being. If nothing else, the way he sometimes catches Blaine side-eyeing his ass during workouts would have clued him in. Still, understanding that your best friend indulges his hormones and satisfied his urges from time to time is totally different from nearly walking in on him jerking it rather vocally to Internet porn.  
Besides, Sam always kind of figured (totally subconsciously, obviously) that Blaine pleasured himself in a dim room lit by candlelight and scattered with rose petals to memories of he and Kurt making sweet, passionate love. It just didn’t compute that sincere, heart-eyed Blaine would get off in the middle of the afternoon to what Sam assumes is video of oiled up, muscled heartthrobs downloaded off some sleazy porn site. Sam snickers at the image he has put into his own mind, and then again when he thinks wildly, I wonder if he ever pictures me. He shakes his head at his own childishness and insensitivity, breathing deeply to expel the last of his giddy shudders. Finally, he texts Blaine: I’m here! Come let me in.   
Blaine pulls the front door open as Sam is stepping onto the porch for the second time, grinning a little maniacally.  
“Hey, man!”  
Sam smiles easily at him, but can’t help but comment deviously, “You look all flushed.”  
Blaine’s cheeks darken even further, but he dismisses the observation with a wave of his hand and leads Sam into the dining room. And Sam has clearly dispelled any lingering immaturity, as he simply opens his textbook and resists noting that they have never studied anywhere but Blaine’s room before this afternoon.  
* * *  
Sam genuinely does put the whole incident past him, too, until Blaine lends him his laptop the next week. Though Sam has use of the Hudson-Hummel’s somewhat dated family desktop, Blaine’s sleek Macbook Pro just makes complicated projects faster and easier to tackle; and it never randomly deletes carefully filed and saved work. Which is somewhat unfortunate for Blaine when Sam comes across a folder buried not-so-deeply in Blaine’s hard drive labeled “tax information.” (Really, dude, Sam thinks as he opens it, what newly eighteen year old has a tax folder on his personal computer?)   
Sam knows it isn’t morally upright behavior to be snooping through his very trusting and generous friend’s personal collection of erotica, but after the little incident the week before, Sam can’t help but wonder what exactly so perfectly unraveled a man who irons his jeans; also, anal sex is a bit of a hazy concept he is definitely not opposed to learning more about, and his conversations with Blaine have been frank enough to leave no doubt that his friend would have at least a few of those kinds of clips. So Sam rifles through Blaine’s x-rated files, double and triple checking that the volume is on the lowest setting – despite the fact that Burt and Carole are currently doing yard work a story below him – before clicking play and sampling about thirty seconds of hard core gay porn, on average. And what he sees unsettles him in a way he did not expect.  
Not the content, of course; if nothing else, the experience of watching two men fuck hard and fast on a loudly protesting chair and thinking only, Um, why did that guy keep his socks on? assures Sam that he is absolutely not homophobic. It’s the men themselves that highlight the previously subconscious issue at hand. Because these men have largely soft, thin builds and small frames that stress flexibility and dexterity – while still emphasizing girth and size; this is still porn – over strength and musculature. And this emphasis worries Sam, an uber-body-conscious man who spends a significant amount of time perfecting the sculpture and definition of his toned muscles.  
You see, Sam is honest about himself; Blaine calls it harsh and unrealistic, but Sam sees his worldview as truthful. He knows that, personality-wise, he is riding high on the “adorkable” craze. The impressions, the sort of greasy hair, the membership in a club that regularly breaks out in show tunes in very public arenas; Sam knows this would be social and sexual kryptonite if pop culture was not currently sexualizing and fetishizing any (man) who never got laid in high school. But his body. Sam never thought his body, if kept in the proper condition, would ever go out of style. It’s part of the reason he was so cavalier about Blaine’s crush on him; he expected it, even desired it. He always assumed he was Blaine’s (and many others) physical ideal: a sleek, hairless, muscled body he could fantasize about. Sam relied on the favor and appeal that his appearance – and, in large part, his body – curried him.  
And yet, Blaine – the alpha gay (Kurt’s words), the trendsetter (Sam’s own observation) – is getting off to images of male bodies vastly dissimilar to Sam’s own physique. Sam is worried. Sam is very worried. If the body he has worked for, the body he has spent a large part of his teen years perfecting, is a passing fad…Well, Sam just isn’t sure what he has going for him. Sam closes Blaine’s laptop with a soft snap, his project forgotten (but nearly finished anyway) and his mind preoccupied. Times like this, Sam would retreat to the gym; it clears his mind and hones his concentration, and it is a lot more productive than watching a movie or playing Call of Duty (not that he doesn’t indulge in those things). But he can’t, not if the hot trend of next season is a lean, but natural and youthful male body with far less definition than Sam is currently sporting. That’s what Blaine likes; and if Sam has learned anything from the Internet – or was it all those Sex and the City marathons Mercedes had made him watch when they were together? – it is that gay men are one step ahead of mainstream consumption. Sam stores Blaine’s laptop safely in his backpack and wonders despondently what Blaine even sees in him.  
* * *  
Blaine notices; of course he notices. Sam has been distant, evasive, shrugging off boxing and weight lifting sessions in favor of an extra mile on the track, another twenty minutes on the elliptical. And so Blaine approaches Sam, ever so gently, and Sam responds with his usual abrupt honesty.  
“Do you ever think of me when you jerk off?” Sam asks, and it takes Blaine several attempts at re-mastering the English language to respond coherently.  
“Are you trying to change the subject?”  
“No,” Sam replies, “I’m asking because of the subject.”  
When Blaine looks confused, Sam helpfully elaborates, “I’m asking because I’m not really sure anymore if I’m what people want. You know, s – sexually.”  
Again Blaine gapes.  
“What would ever make you think you weren’t exactly what, um, some people envision when they do, um – yeah, when they do that?”  
The blush on Blaine’s cheeks is evident, and Sam feels the confidence and level of intimacy with his friend necessary to verbalize his exact concerns.  
“I walked in on you jerking it a few weeks ago.” At Blaine’s horrified look, Sam quickly elaborates.  
“I mean, I didn’t see anything. I heard some stuff, but –” Blaine is still a bright red tint, and fervently avoiding Sam’s eyes. “It was nothing, really. It doesn’t matter. Except later I kind of found your porn stash on your computer…”   
Blaine’s head snaps up.  
“That was perfectly concealed!” he cries indignantly.  
“That was in a tax folder on your desktop under miscellaneous files,” Sam amends, “it was kind of a red flag. No offense.”  
Blaine grumbles a half-hearted rebuff under his breath.  
“Anyway,” Sam continues, “I watched a few of the videos – ” Blaine’s eyes are suddenly fixated on Sam, wide and inquisitive. “They weren’t bad technically, and I’m sure if I were, uh, that way inclined I would have totally gotten off to them –”  
Sam isn’t sure how to continue, but a light in Blaine’s eyes suddenly shines clear, and he continued Sam’s explanation.  
“And you were concerned when I wasn’t seemingly fantasizing about men that look exactly like you.”  
It’s Sam’s turn to shrug. Blaine, on the other hand, chuckles lightly.  
“Look, Sam, I am a – a visual person. I need to see the actual, um – the event itself to – to reach full stimulation. But that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about – about other things or, or like, other people.”  
Sam’s voice is almost bashful when he asks, “Like me?”  
Blaine sighs.  
“Yes, Sam, I have thought about you before.” He pauses. “Many times.” Another pause and a deep breathe. “Also, for the record? I downloaded all those videos after a certain – an event in my life had occurred. I missed him a lot, and those guys in the videos reminded me of him, and their partners looked like me, kind of, and that’s all I needed to be reminded of –”  
Blaine abruptly stops speaking, and his shoulders shake lightly as he inhales deeply and pinches the bridge of his nose. Sam’s hand falls heavily on Blaine’s shoulder.  
“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know. I just got kind of – self-conscious,” Sam finishes lamely, feeling like a class-A jerk for surfacing what is clearly Blaine’s own willfully subconscious behavior.  
“No, no, it’s cool,” Blaine assures, lifting his head and smiling slightly. “I need to know what’s going on with you. Especially considering this stuff. I can help with this stuff!”  
Blaine is far too cheery, Sam feels, for a guy whose best friend just admitted to witnessing him pleasuring himself and feeling jealous Blaine wasn’t exclusively using Sam’s own body type for inspiration.  
“Let me assure you,” Blaine says seriously, warm eyes locking with Sam’s, “that you are primo material. You are the uber-hunk.”   
Sam feels Blaine might be messing with him.   
“You are every sexually realized person’s wet dream.”   
Sam is fairly certain Blaine is mocking him.  
“Jake once told me he had a sex dream about you.”  
Blaine is one hundred percent fucking with him. Sam punches Blaine’s arm, and Blaine’ mouths wordlessly, “Ow!”  
“Ha, ha,” Sam says, ruffling Blaine’s hair fondly. “You won’t be laughing next time I catch you loving yourself up! I’m gonna bust through the freaking door belting ‘I Touch Myself.’”  
Blaine smoothes his hair with a practices flick of his wrist – did it even move, though? – as he grins easily at his own humor. The more time he has to process Sam’s words, though, the more his smile falters into a grimace, then a frown.  
“Oh my god,” he finally cries, “you were the one who took our hide-a-key!”  
Sam flinches. He had forgotten, then found it in his pocket and had been too bashful to explain how he ended up with it, then had let it slip his mind yet again.  
“I can get it back to you,” he says in a small voice.  
“Too late!” Blaine cries, sounding strangely victorious, “We changed our locks! And I got grounded for a week for ‘poor judgment and responsibility.’”  
Sam supplies weakly, “Sorry, dude.”  
“Nope,” Blaine shakes his head resolutely, “sorry is not going to cut it. You owe me.”  
“What do you want?”  
“Perform for me.” Blaine says it so fast Sam barely comprehends the meaning.  
“What?!”  
“I want you to be my living, breathing, throbbing inspiration.” Blaine is grinning maniacally.  
“Come on, man. Quit it.”  
“Please, Sam, you make me so hard.” The shit-eating grin and exaggerated clutching motions Blaine is currently sporting make it clear that he is, once again, kidding with Sam.  
“Hysterical,” Sam says with a roll of his eyes. Then: “Really, though, can I make it up to you?”  
Blaine considers Sam’s request, arms crossed sternly about his chest, before breaking into a genuine, heart-breakingly sincere smile and replying, “Buy me a mocha at the Lima Bean? And split a strawberry cheesecake muffin? No punishment workout following!”  
Sam sighs, smiling a relieved and exaggeratedly compromising grin.  
“Let’s go, sailor.”


	6. 1. Kurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am totally ashamed by how long it took me to finish this thing. Deepest apologies. Thanks for sticking with me; thanks so, so much.

Kurt moves back to Lima for the summer, and Sam heaves an internal sigh as he relocates to the basement.  
It makes sense logistically. Kurt can micro-manage Burt’s health far easier from the next room than he can from his loft in Bushwick; the whole family needs much more than a brief, week-long visit or two to mourn their loss and quietly, determinedly re-build their lives together; and Blaine’s parents are spared the agony of battling with a son absolutely determined to walk off stage on graduation day, diploma in hand and bags packed, and directly onto the next plane to New York.  
And Sam is happy for his newly engaged best friend, he really is; has been since Blaine reunited with Kurt, proposed, and was accepted – all in the same week. He would be blind not to notice the exuberance that bursts out of Blaine and infects all around him, and a pretty shitty friend not to welcome the change from a few short months ago, when Blaine was guilt-ridden and desolate. And Sam has always respected Kurt’s strength and sense of self, even though they never quite connected the way he and Blaine have.  
But Sam had made plans of his own for the summer. After a long Evans Family Kitchen Table Talk with his parents during spring break, he had decided to remain in Lima until September, when Blaine is slated to leave for college. Sam doesn’t have a post-graduation plan beyond moving back to Kentucky with his family and finding work; his mother had given him some community college pamphlets, but Sam knows that, though out of the red, his parents are far from flush. So Sam and his parents had decided that Sam would stay in Ohio for the summer so that he might spend his last few weeks preceding adulthood with the outrageous choir of misfits that have become his second family. And Blaine, of course, plays a pivotal role; he is Sam’s brother, his second, and Sam had planned on plenty of late-night marathon Halo sessions, comic book conventions, and other Blam-centric outings. Sam had not planned on time-sharing his best friend.  
Kurt’s first week home plays out about how Sam expects. After a short phone conversation with Blaine’s parents, during which Sam overhears Burt snort, “Right, like there is a force beyond sheer gravity that’s gonna keep those kids apart for more than ten minutes,” Burt sits Kurt and Blaine down to address the situation.  
“Right,” Burt says gruffly, smoothing a hand over his scalp, “no need to hesitate or beat around the bush here.”  
“Um, do you want me to leave?” Sam asks from across the island, scooping his apple slices into a bowl and a bit frantically dousing them with honey. Burt’s voice freezes him.  
“No, you stay, kid. I’m gonna need you to help keep them in line as much as me and Carole. And,” his voice softens, “you are part of this family, and this is most definitely a family matter.”  
Kurt rolls his eyes.  
“Why are we being treated like delinquents here?”  
“You mean besides the fact that you got home forty-five minutes late?” Burt asks with a raised eyebrow. “I know your flight itinerary, buddy, and I know how long it takes to drive from this house to the airport.”  
“Traffic,” Kurt says impassively as Blaine scuffs his shoe guiltily against the linoleum, his cheeks tinting pink.  
“Whatever,” Burt says, arms extended in the air in a symbol of peace, “I’m just trying to lay down the ground rules. Now, Blaine’s parents and I have agreed that it is damn near pointless to even pretend you’re not going to be spending every single night together, with or without our permission. So, you have it.”  
Sam smirks as he watches Blaine color further. Kurt remains perfectly relaxed in his chair.  
“However, we do expect you to re-surface and return to your separate homes to spend time with your families once in awhile.” Burt turns to Kurt sternly. “Friday night dinners stand. No exceptions.”  
Kurt nods.  
“And, regardless of whose house you’re in, remember that you two are not alone in it. So, fully clothed before you enter a shared space – ”  
“Oh, my god!” Kurt erupts incredulously, but Burt plows on.  
“Shared space includes hallways. And, for Pete’s sake, keep it down. And that includes that Florence’s Machine music you play at full volume to cover your, er, other noises.”  
“Which doesn’t work, by the way,” Sam grumbles mutinously, and Blaine looks equal parts aghast and betrayed, his jaw hanging open unattractively.  
Kurt stands calmly and addresses Burt with a clear, strong voice.  
“Is that all?”  
“No,” Burt spits, stepping forward and wrapping Kurt in his arms. “Welcome home, son.”  
Kurt smiles into the embrace and relaxes into his father’s arms before stepping away and pulling Blaine to his feet.  
“We’re going to unpack my room, and –” he says, locking eyes with Burt and then Sam, “we don’t need any help. And we’ll probably work through dinner.”  
He brushes a kiss to Burt’s cheek as he surges past, Blaine in tow behind him, grinning maniacally.  
They’re in Kurt’s room for the better part of four days.  
Sam, Artie, Ryder, Jake, and Mike, who also opted to visit Lima for the summer, are sprawled around the television, PS3 controllers in hand, in Sam’s admittedly awesome basement room when Blaine finally emerges. Sam and Blaine had planned an epic, start-of-summer sleep-bro-ver, complete with pizza, the latest version of Bioshock, and, inevitably, an impromptu jam session in the Hudson-Hummel’s garage the next afternoon. And, despite Blaine’s noted absence, the event is in full swing, the men throwing elbows and jeering at each other over the background of Mike’s iPod, because the basement walls are soundproof. Amidst the chaos, Blaine tramples energetically, but sheepishly down the stairs. He wears loose cotton shorts and an undershirt that is too big on him, the sleeves rolled up to his shoulders; his hair is a curly, fluffy mess; and there are several deep red marks on his neck and exposed collarbone. He looks well and truly fucked.  
The group wolf-whistles almost in unison as Blaine squeezes onto the second-hand couch in the makeshift living room section of Sam’s space, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously.  
“You’re alive,” Sam notes dryly.  
“Shut up,” Blaine mumbles, cheeks burning, “can we save the merciless teasing and innuendo for after the sleepover?”  
“Dude, who’s teasing?” Artie cries from his spot next to the couch. “For as laid as you look right now, I offer you nothing but the most abundant of mad props.”  
He extends his fist across Sam, and Blaine hesitantly bumps it.  
“But,” Mike cries from Burt’s old recliner situated on the opposite side of the couch, “the innuendo is inescapable, as always!”  
Sam slings an arm casually around Blaine as the rest of the group re-focuses on the game and conversation at hand.  
“Thought you weren’t going to make it.”  
“Kurt practically kicked me out when he heard about this thing.” Sam raises a skeptical eyebrow, but keeps his head turned toward the TV.  
Blaine continues, “And I totally planned to come, I just – I mean, we fell a-asleep and my phone battery was dead and –”  
“Bet that’s not the only battery-operated device you and Kurt wore out in the past week,” Jake deadpans, and the basement erupts in guffaws as Blaine fumes indignantly and Sam tousles his hair.  
“Glad you could make it, man.”  
* * *

The next few weeks in the Hudmel house are awkward, and at least to Sam the uncertainty of the “adjustment period” seems endless. All three men have found summer work – Sam and Blaine as lifeguards at the community pool, and Kurt in his dad’s shop – and the overlap in their schedules is unpredictable. Sam frequently finds Blaine alone on lazy summer afternoons or evenings, sprawled on the living couch watching the SciFi channel or spread on his stomach on a lawn chair out back. Sam never hesitates to join his friend, and there are days when they kill the hours before the house fills up again as they used to, talking and making music and plotting their next bro-venture; but there are also times when Kurt strolls in not long after Sam, and Sam attempts to stifle his resentment as he concocts a flimsy excuse to leave the couple alone, the heat of Kurt’s unreadable gaze as he follows Sam’s retreating form prickling the back of his neck.  
Sam comes home from work one night on edge. His afternoon shift at the pool had been a loud, chaotic, soul-crushing six hours, and Sam wants nothing more than to shower, flop face down onto his couch, and watch four hours of cartoons. He resolutely erases the “with Blaine” addendum that would normally round out the scene as he slumps down the stairs to his room and directly into the bathroom. The shower loosens his body, but Sam’s mind is still racing when he walks into his common area in jersey shorts, toweling off his shaggy hair. Sam grins in surprise as he drops the towel to the ground and spies Blaine leaning against the couch, knees tight to his chest, gazing idly at Sam’s tanned torso.  
Sam clears his throat and Blaine instantly averts his eyes.  
“The sun is working wonders for you, man,” Blaine mumbles, cheeks pink and eyes still fixed on his kneecaps. Sam preens as he throws himself onto the couch behind his friend.  
“Better watch it,” he teases, “Kurt sees you drooling over my abs and we’re going to have an even bigger problem around here.”  
Blaine snorts and grabs a magazine from the table.  
“Please,” he replies, “Kurt would be looking just as hard as I was.” He cocks his head to the side quizzically and adds, “Do we have a problem right now?”  
Sam ignores him, fishing the remote from beneath the couch cushions and switching on the television.  
“Want to order a pizza and watch Cartoon Network until we fall asleep?” Sam asks.  
Blaine twists his upper body to look his friend in the eye and whistles lowly.  
“Whoa,” he says, “what the hell happened today?”  
Sam shakes his head and groans into the lumpy accent pillow before him.  
“What didn’t happen today? We had a birthday party scheduled for two o’clock and the reservation was somehow lost, so I had to tell this espresso-high soccer mom that her daughter’s party had been relocated to the smoker’s picnic table off in that unmanicured area of the lawn. So she complained until Eric gave her a fifty percent discount, then he blamed me for the whole thing.”  
Blaine tisks.  
“That guy is a douche,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “But you had Marissa to help you out, right? That redhead who loves X-Men? You like her, don’t you?”  
“Yeah, I did,” Sam sighs, “until she asked me to handle the party on my own so she could leave early for a road trip to Lollapalooza with her previously-unmentioned boyfriend. Which meant I was alone for two hours after closing sterilizing the deck because three kids from the party threw up on it.”  
Blaine is shaking his head angrily and muttering under his breath by the time Sam finishes, and he pulls his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans.  
“We are definitely ordering pizza,” he declares, smirking up at Sam as he dials, “and we are stealing a bottle of Burt’s alcohol. He and Carole are gone for the weekend and they don’t even bother locking the liquor cabinet anymore.”  
Sam grins slowly at his wonderful, supportive, brilliant friend and pets his hair affectionately.  
“I love you, man.”  
* * *  
Three hours later, Sam is drunk, and Blaine is buzzed.  
“No, but, I really love you, man,” Sam slurs, sliding down the couch onto the floor next to Blaine.  
“I love you, too,” Blaine hiccups, stifling his laughter into Sam’s shoulder.  
“Listen, though,” Blaine says, pushing off of Sam’s side to sit up, “you need to stand up for yourself more.”  
Sam makes a noise of dismissal, but Blaine shakes his head earnestly.  
“No, I mean it,” he insists, “with Marissa and Eric. Why is it you can defend me and your friends so fearlessly, but you won’t do the same for yourself?”  
Sam feels tension begin to build behind his eyes, whether from the alcohol or the conversation topic. He deflects.  
“I guess I’m just not as sassy as you,” he teases, elbowing Blaine, who purses his lips disapprovingly and opens his mouth to rebut.  
“I could give you lessons,” a voice calls out from the staircase, and the boys raise their heads to see Kurt smiling at them good-naturedly, a laundry basket resting against his hip, “I practically invented the witty retort.”  
Blaine’s liquor-addled brain switches gears instantly, grinning up at Kurt and biting his lower lip absent-mindedly.  
“Mind if I throw this in the wash?” Kurt asks Sam as he descends the staircase, and Sam grunts, hating not for the first time the fact that the washing machine is in the back corner of the basement.  
“Didn’t you just do laundry yesterday?” Sam grumbles as Kurt throws a handful of bedding into the machine.  
“My sheets are being soiled at a remarkable speed these days,” Kurt comments dryly, and Blaine snorts and gazes at Kurt adoringly.  
Sam grimaces.  
“We’re kind of in the middle of something,” he grumbles.  
“All right,” Kurt concedes easily, “I’m done!”  
He glides over to Blaine quickly and falls to his knees in front of him, smiling warmly.  
“Good night,” he whispers, “and have fun.”  
Kurt brushes a light kiss to Blaine’s lips, but Blaine grips the back of his neck and hums, pressing his mouth more firmly against Kurt’s and parting his lips.  
“Kiss me for real before you go,” he slurs, and though Kurt’s gaze darts uncertainly to Sam, he grips Blaine’s face lightly in his hands and kisses him in earnest.  
Sam slides back up to the couch, suddenly irritated despite the fact that Kurt and Blaine have been far more physically affectionate in his presence previously without Sam so much as blinking at them.  
“Don’t mind me,” he grumbles, and Blaine glances confusedly at him over his shoulder as Kurt rises slowly.  
“I’m leaving, Sam,” Kurt says slowly, “It’s fine.”  
“No,” Sam says bluntly, “please, he’s all yours.”  
Sam wobbles across the room, but turns suddenly, ignoring the lurching of his stomach at the rapid movement.  
“No, you know what?” he says, “I will stand up for myself. Thank you, my devoted best friend, for the advice. This is my room. If you two want to get busy, go do it anywhere else, where I don’t have to watch.”  
Kurt mutters under his breath, “Maybe you don’t need lessons in sass,” as he drags a wide and wet-eyed Blaine up the stairs.  
Sam feels guilty for his outburst even before Blaine throws one more pleading, doe-eyed look over his shoulder. But the pressure behind his eyes has turned into a dull throbbing, and so he turns resolutely away from his retreating friends and collapses again onto the sofa.  
Sam spends the night stretched out on his dingy couch, and when his doorknob turns around midnight, he is grateful that he had pulled himself up briefly to lock the door. He shifts on the couch, his back toward the stairs, and ignores the soft knocking.

* * *

Sam is off work the following day, and though he wakes early, muscles aching from the discomfort of spending the night on an ancient couch and head pounding from the alcohol, he stays in his room until late in the morning, looking to avoid early risers Kurt and Blaine. He is surprised, then, to finally trudge up to the kitchen for some granola and juice and find Kurt slumped at the table with a mug of coffee, bed head intact and his long, pale, and impressively toned limbs on display in a grey tank top and long, loose shorts.  
“Uh, I thought you went in to oversee the shop for Burt today,” Sam said, standing in the doorway awkwardly.  
Kurt’s head snaps up and he smiles a bit nervously, rising from the table and ushering Sam into his vacated seat.  
“Come in and sit. I told the boys I wouldn’t be in until later today.”  
Sam sits, and Kurt bustles over to the fridge, pulling out a chilled glass of fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice. He places the glass in front of Sam and steps back hesitantly.  
“I made us breakfast. Veggie omelets and whole wheat toast. It’s warming in the oven. I wasn’t sure when you’d be up. Are you hungry?” Kurt speaks quickly, eyes wide and eager, and a bit desperate. For just a moment, he reminds Sam of Blaine, so vulnerable in his fervent search for acceptance.  
“That sounds great, dude,” Sam says hesitantly, “Thanks.”  
Kurt places two warm plates at the neatly set table, two small bowls of cut strawberries, banana, and blueberries already part of the place settings. Kurt sits down to his own meal, warning Sam briefly that the plates are hot before tucking into his food silently. Sam does the same, determined to enjoy what he knows will be a delicious breakfast before the unpleasantness he sees is coming.  
Kurt and Sam finish eating, and Kurt reaches for Sam’s plate, half-rising out of his chair to see to the dishes, but Sam stops him.  
“Wait,” he says, “let’s just get this over with.”  
Kurt doesn’t hesitate, but resumes his seat at the table and folds his hands in front of himself.  
“All right,” he breathes.  
Sam shifts a bit in his seat to face Kurt.  
“I’m sorry for being a drama queen last night, I guess I should start with that.”  
Kurt’s lips tug into a small smile.  
“You did Rachel proud, I’m sure.”  
“And I’m sorry that I cut into your time with Blaine, but, really, dude, I can’t predict when you’re going to be home, and sometimes we are genuinely in the middle of stuff, and can’t you guys just, like, meet in your room or something so I don’t think Blaine is free when he’s not?”  
Kurt blinks and replies stupidly, “What?”  
“That’s what this is about, right? You’re mad at me for distracting Blaine all the time.”  
Kurt shakes his head slowly.  
“No, I’m not,” he says, “I thought you were pissed at me for interrupting bro time.”  
Sam brightens, hurrying to stand from the table.  
“Oh, well, I’m not mad, and if you aren’t mad, great! I’m just gonna –”  
“No, Sam, sit down,” Kurt says, and Sam slumps back into his chair. “So, all those times you practically ran out of the room when I walked in, that is what it was all about? You think I don’t want you hanging out with Blaine?”  
Sam shrugs.  
“Well, I mean, I just thought you’d want him all to yourself now. And, like, forever.”  
Kurt shakes his head, looking genuinely perplexed. Sam begins to feel as though he has missed something very important.  
“But we’re going to be living together in New York come fall. And I know you guys have all these epic summer plans.” Kurt’s features stiffen slightly as he continues, “And, besides, when did I ever keep Blaine from having his own life before?”  
Sam opens his mouth to reply, but realizes as he thinks back that Kurt is right. Two years ago, Blaine was a regular attendee of after school workout sessions, nightly rounds of Call of Duty, and weekend pick-up games. And Kurt frequently scheduled shopping trips and sleepovers with the girls, or picked up shifts at the tire shop for extra cash. Sam suddenly can’t understand how his mind had conjured up this image of the couple as an inseparable, impenetrable unit.  
Sam weakly replies, “But you’re his fiancé now.”  
“And you’re now his best friend,” Kurt shoots back. “Sam, I know that earlier this year I wasn’t there for Blaine like I should have been. I-I let him down.”  
Kurt’s shoulders are growing heavy and his voice is a bit weaker when he continues, “I know that might create some resistance or distrust of me on your part, however unconscious. But you were there for him, and you helped him work through everything that was going on inside his head.”  
Kurt sighs.  
“I’m really glad that you two became so close this year, and I know Blaine is, too. And I don’t want to come between that; it was never my intention. In fact, I organized this breakfast to apologize for crashing your time together, for making it awkward. You two have this ridiculous connection that I’m a bit jealous of, really – ”  
Sam scoffs, and Kurt smiles warmly, reaching out and taking Sam’s hand.  
“And I really don’t believe that anything, ever is going to come between it. Not New York, not whatever else may happen in the future, and certainly not me.”  
Sam grins.  
“Yeah?”  
“Of course,” Kurt whispers, and, after a gentle squeeze to Sam’s hand, releases it.  
“I don’t have any, like, judgment toward you,” Sam says, since they seem to be bearing their souls and deepest insecurities over breakfast. “You messed up, Blaine messed up; it was just a big clusterfuck. But you make him, you know, feel good. I want that for him. He’s like my brother.”  
“I make him feel good?” Kurt asks, eyebrow raised and a dirty smirk on his face. “Been listening outside my door?”  
Sam scrunches his nose.  
“Dude, come on. You know, like, astronauts in space can hear Blaine screaming.”  
Kurt barks out a laugh, cut short by the sound of another, rather tight voice from the doorway.  
“So, have Mommy and Daddy sorted out visiting rights?” Blaine asks, leaning against the kitchen door frame with his arms primly crossed, brow furrowed darkly.  
“Blaine!” Kurt cries, a bit flustered. “What are you doing here? D-don’t you have work?”  
Blaine looks skeptically toward the sliding glass doors.  
“Uh, it’s pouring rain, Kurt. We closed the pool.”  
“Right.”  
Blaine strides into the room, eyeing Sam and Kurt suspiciously.  
“So, on this fine morning while I’m out saving cheap, tacky umbrellas from gale force winds, you two are, what? Drawing up a timeshare plan for me?”  
Sam and Kurt have the decency to color in guilt, pale cheeks burning pink as they shift uncomfortably in their seats.  
“You do realize I’m my own person, right? I can arrange my own social life?”  
“Sorry, man,” Sam mumbles.  
“I’m sorry, honey,” Kurt gushes, “I just know how upset you got last night after Sam kicked us out, and I was tired of the awkwardness, and I just thought it would be better if Sam and I talked alone, and –”  
Blaine shakes his head lightly as Kurt trails off, his shoulders shaking with poorly-contained laughter.  
“Is something funny?” Kurt asks a bit icily, and Blaine looks up at him fondly, dropping completely his affronted act.  
“Not really,” Blaine says through a grin, “I’m just thinking how lucky I am to have two such overprotective, micromanaging boyfriends.”  
“Boyfriend?” Kurt asks with an arch of his eyebrow, side-eyeing Sam for all he’s worth. “That aspect of your self-titled ‘bromance’ is new to me.”  
“Oh, if only you knew,” Blaine continues, “Sam made sure in the interim of our relationship that no other man laid his hands -- or even eyes -- on me. He’s very attentive. You have a lot to live up to now, babe.”  
Sam scowls at Blaine and retorts, “I was looking out for you, dude. I can’t help it that every time you bat those eyelashes five different guys fall to their knees in front of you!”  
Blaine bursts out laughing, and Kurt snorts. Even Sam seems baffled by his own words.  
“Wow,” Kurt breathes, turning toward Sam and sliding a hand up to rub at his shoulder, “I’m not sure how to feel about that.”  
“Fine, whatever,” Sam says, “but one thing’s for sure: I pass all my sexual privileges to you, Kurt.”  
Blaine pretends to pout, but quickly pulls Kurt up and out of his chair.  
“Well, if you boys are done with your totally offensive negotiations that undermine my very personhood, I think I’m going to cash in on some of those privileges you were mentioning.”  
Blaine leads Kurt out of the room, calling back over his shoulder, “I expect a no-kiss-and-make-up dinner tonight, baby!”  
“Hallways are public spaces, boys!” Sam retorts, chuckling despite himself at Blaine’s quip.  
He is too pleased with the restoration of balance to his friendship and living arrangement to register the slamming of a door a bit too loud to have come from the second floor. He catches on, however, when he ambles back to his basement room to find the door firmly locked from the inside.  
“Totally uncool!” he calls, but hurries away when the only answer he receives is one of Blaine’s deep, exaggerated moans and the opening notes to “Drumming Song.”


End file.
